by Tony Roberts
Mehmet looked confused. “But I am your enemy. It would be foolish to keep me armed. What if I decided to slit your throat?”
Casca grinned. “Would you do that?”
Mehmet considered that for a moment. “Perhaps not. What will you do with me? Am I your slave?”
Casca glanced at the battlefield. Turks were being dragged away forcefully and the fallen checked to see if they lived. He recalled he was thirsty. His water skin had enough to slake his thirst and he did so, passing it to Mehmet so he, too, could drink. As Mehmet finished and gratefully passed it back to Casca, the eternal mercenary replied. “No, you are not my slave. I am prepared to allow you to retain your faith, on condition that you faithfully serve me as my retainer. Your master has fled, abandoning you. Therefore you now have no master. Do you agree to serve in my household?”
Mehmet looked surprised. “You are very generous indeed, not like how I was brought to believe. I accept.”
Casca nodded and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Stay close to my side. You may see plenty of intolerance shortly, but once you are seen as being my retainer, you will be left alone.”
Mehmet followed Casca as the latter walked his horse over to where Count Raymond was taking the plaudits from his nobles. “Well won fight, Count Raymond,” Casca said.
The aged count turned. “Indeed, Baron. A good fight, too. We put them to flight! God looks after the true believers, does he not? And who is this? A prize?”
Casca grinned. “My new retainer, my lord. We appeared just in time to save the camp from an attack.”
“I shall go see how the others are. Will you accompany me?”
Casca agreed and the three made their way over to the camp, a rough circular area where Bohemond’s and Robert of Flanders’ baggage had been gathered. The ground was littered with arrows. Stephen of Blois greeted them with a wide smile. “Well met, Toulouse, Stokeham. Your arrival was timely indeed. What a sight!”
“It was indeed, Blois,” Raymond replied gravely. He was looking at the dead. Many were Crusaders.
Casca left them to it. He led his horse and Mehmet through the littered field to the camp. Some men were moving feebly, blood oozing from their wounds, crying out for help or just water. Already the camp followers were rushing to their aid, and slitting the throats of any Turk they came across that wasn’t quite dead. Mehmet looked away and stepped just that little bit closer to his new lord.
Casca spotted Bohemond easily enough. Nobody was as big as he. “Oh, it’s you,” the Norman said as he caught sight of the scarred warrior approaching. “Thought you’d miss the fun.” He looked at the sweaty figure next to him. “I see you’ve claimed a battle prize. Going to sell him?”
“Not a chance. Had to ride to your rescue, Bohemond.”
The giant snorted with amusement. “We had the battle under control. No need for your puny efforts, Stokeham!”
“From what I saw, your ass was about to be delivered to you on a plate. We hit those damned ghulams in the flank just as they were about to ride you down.”
The Norman sneered. “We would have defeated them.”
Casca shook his head, glancing at the hostile expressions on Bohemond’s followers. “I know what they’re capable of, and it looked to me like a classic Turkish attack. You walked right into a trap. Let me see now.” Casca looked at the horizon, then at the ground. He turned to face the mouth of the valley they had come along from Nicaea. “You emerged from the valley and turned east,” he nodded over to where the Turks had fled, beyond where Raymond and his men were recovering from their exertions. “Kilich Arslan was standing there across the road to Dorylaeum. So you decided to attack. You put your camp here behind you.”
Bohemond glared at Casca. The others glanced at each other. Casca’s assessment was eerily accurate.
“Then when you advanced to do battle, another lot came riding over the hill behind us,” and he waved to the west, on the other side of the meadow, where a long, low hill rose at the end of the valley. “Who then proceeded to pour arrows into the camp. You had to retreat or you would have lost your baggage and equipment. Then Kilich let loose the rest of his mounted archers on you from his main lines and you were in the middle of two groups who shot the hell out of you. How am I doing?”
Bohemond spat in the dust.
Casca ignored him. He addressed the open-mouthed Normans alongside. “Then a third group rode over there,” and he indicated the valley mouth, “and entered the valley to see if anyone else was down there. They rode into Godfrey and came galloping out as if the hounds of hell were on their tails. Godfrey formed up there,” and he pointed across the small river to the other side close to the valley entrance, “to protect your flank and to stop any more Turks coming in to see that in fact there was still one more force coming, and that was Raymond. And me,” he added, tapping his chest, grinning at Bohemond. “Kilich was satisfied you were ripe for the plucking and assembled his elite force, which included my good friend Mehmet here, to smash you to bits, and that’s when we rode to the rescue. Hurrah!”
“You’ve got a big mouth, Stokeham!” the Norman prince snapped. “I don’t want to hear any more of your bragging. Get out of my sight and allow me to comfort my wounded.”
“I’m going,” Casca said, tugging on the reins of his placid horse. “And your thanks are appreciated.”
Bohemond’s reply was un-princely.
Casca was more interested in Tatikus and the imperial detachment. They were off to the rear of the camp and had borne the brunt of the second enemy group’s shooting. A few score were lying still on the ground, and others were having their arrows painfully removed. At least Alexius had provided medical help in his forces, something the Eastern Romans had always done.
Tatikus was pleased to see Casca, and mildly interested in Mehmet. Having been born a Turk himself, he had a more relaxed view of the enemy. He confirmed Casca’s story and that Bohemond had ignored the warnings not to look around before giving battle. “The fool has plenty to learn,” the Greek said. “Cost a lot of lives.”
“Hopefully Raymond will have more influence after this. Bohemond won’t like it but he can jump into the sea as far as I’m concerned,” Casca said.
Tatikus concurred and offered Casca a meal which he took. Afterwards the dead were separated, the Turks being burned and the Christians buried. The rest of the crusade arrived, including Giselle, and she was relieved that Casca was unharmed. Casca introduced her to Mehmet. “He’s going to be our new retainer. He will guard you when I’m not there.”
Giselle looked dubious but Casca reassured her, and Mehmet bowed formally to her and vowed to protect the woman, swearing on the word of Allah.
“But – but he’s a Muslim!” Giselle said, gasping in shock and fear.
“So?” Casca shrugged. “He doesn’t eat babies, he doesn’t practice dark magic. He eats, drinks, pisses like the rest of us. Give him a chance; you’ll love him come the end of the week. Now let’s get set up; I’m tired.”
They set up their tent among Raymond’s force. Plenty of prisoners had been taken and they were all pressed to convert to Christianity. Those who did – and they were mostly ex-slave ghulams or heretical Paulicians from deeper Anatolia – were allowed to join the crusade, while those who refused were enslaved and sent back to Nicaea with ransom notes.
Casca became aware that one individual was taking such an interest in him. It was a thin, shaggy-haired fanatical looking priest. Upon asking, Casca learned his name was Peter Bartholomew and he was from the southern Frankish lands and was part of Raymond’s camp.
He decided to find out why the man was taking an undue interest in him. For the moment, however, they resumed their march and two days later reached the town of Dorylaeum, nestled in a wide valley and abandoned by the Turks. The citizens greeted the Crusaders as liberators and the army gratefully set up camp where they could rest, collect water and recover from their wounds and losses.
The streets of Doryla
eum were typical of an Anatolian town; the houses huddled close to one another, a collection of mud-brick and stone buildings. It wasn’t big enough to accommodate the army; Constantinople hadn’t been and that was many times bigger than this modest town. Casca, as a minor ‘noble’, was permitted a house inside the walls that had belonged to a member of the garrison who had gone to war for the Sultan, and hadn’t returned from the battle.
Giselle was pleased and threw herself into a frenzy of dusting and tidying up. Casca left her to it. In two days or so time they would leave and probably never see the town again. Mehmet stood in the entry hall and surveyed the building. “A humble place to live. I approve; blessed are those who reject ostentation.”
“Oh, don’t go all quoting the Prophet or the scriptures or anything to me, Mehmet. This is only a temporary billet and we’ll be back to the tent the day after tomorrow.”
“I was merely saying it is not good to display status in a rude and vain manner.” Mehmet stepped into the main living space and closely examined the walls and floor. “A warrior lived here.”
“How do you know, Mehmet?”
The retainer indicated two hooks on the wall opposite the window. “A sword hung from there.”
Casca had to agree. The ex-ghulam had a keen eye for detail. “See if there’s anything to eat. I’m hungry.”
Giselle came bounding down the wooden stairs. “The bed is wonderful! A comfortable bed with a mattress! Can you believe that? I’ve not slept in one for ages!”
“Nicaea – you did there,” Casca reminded her.
“Oh, yes, but this is different! You must come and see!”
What was different Casca didn’t know but he went anyway. Upstairs was a bed chamber at the end of the short wooden passageway and the room was modest but had a fine wooden bed against one of the walls. There was a window that looked out onto the main street below and Casca looked out while Giselle was sinking into the mattress, her arms flung out.
“I could sleep for a hundred years in this!” she exclaimed.
“You’d smell a bit after all that time,” Casca said absently, looking across the road to where a figure was stood, watching the house.
“Oh, phoo-ey,” Giselle said in mock severity. “You’ll have a hard job getting me out of bed when it’s time for us to leave.”
“I’ll find a way,” Casca said, making for the stairs. “I’m just going outside to see a man. Mehmet’s in the kitchen trying to find something to eat.”
“Is he safe?”
Casca stopped in the doorway. “What do you mean, safe?”
Giselle sat up in the bed. “I mean would he do something awful if we allowed him to stay with us?”
“Giselle, forget about what you’ve been told about these people; they’re just like you or I. It’s just that they worship God in a different way, that’s all. They don’t practice sacrifices, they don’t grow extra heads or have hair growing out of their palms. Once you get to know them they’re fine people. Alright, they are a little humorless at times when you talk about religion, but then aren’t our priests?”
“But Casca – the Muslims are the enemy. The Pope himself said so! They are the unbelievers!”
Casca smiled tolerantly. “True, they are the enemy, but not so that we can’t be decent to any that we take prisoner. You’ve seen Mehmet; does he strike you as a terrible man?”
“I don’t understand him when he speaks.”
“It’s only because he doesn’t speak Frankish and you don’t speak Turkic. Don’t worry, I will translate. Besides, it’s amazing just how much you can communicate to someone without speaking.” He began to leave. “I won’t be long.”
He went out the front door and crossed the road. Peter Bartholomew saw him coming and began to hurry away but Casca rushed after him and cornered him after a short chase. Dragging him into a narrow smelly alleyway deep with refuse, mud and other unsavory elements, Casca pinned him up against the wall. “Alright, Bartholomew, what’s with the shadowing me business, eh?”
The bearded priest wriggled for a moment then slumped as he realized the futility of such an action. “Greetings, Longinus, Spawn of Satan,” he smiled.
Casca stared at him for a moment, then released him slowly. “Oh shit. Not you lot.”
Bartholomew smiled again, this time very unpleasantly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Brotherhood of the Lamb. Casca stood five feet from Peter Bartholomew, glaring at him with utter hatred. The fanatical sect of Christians who were followers of a man they called the Thirteenth Disciple. Izram. The man who had bought Casca’s spear that had killed Jesus on the Cross, and had turned it into their holiest relic.
The Brotherhood preached chaos and disorder, firmly believing that only once the world was consumed with both, the Second Coming would be possible. They also believed that when Jesus did return, he would seek out and speak to Casca, since on the Cross He had promised to meet Casca again. Therefore, logically, Casca was the best bet to find Jesus.
Ever since he’d first encountered the Brotherhood in Asia, some three hundred years into his life, they had been hunting him, trying to imprison him so that they could control the place where the fateful meeting at the Second Coming would occur.
Consequently Casca did all he could to keep away from them. What he did find was that the Brotherhood tended to kill all those who got close to Casca. Demos and Ireina in Constantinople had been the first experience of that. Therefore he tried to keep them away from his loved ones too.
“What do you want?”
Peter Bartholomew chuckled. “To keep you in sight, of course, Longinus.”
“You can stick that up your ass,” Casca retorted. “I don’t want you maniacs anywhere near me.”
“Too late. You were seen a few weeks ago and recognized, and word has gone out that you have been found again. We cursed the fact you slipped through our fingers recently.”
Casca’s eye narrowed. “What do you mean?”
The priest shrugged. “Oh, you worked for us recently. Sadly we didn’t realize it was you until you’d fallen down the mountain and vanished. When your body couldn’t be found we knew it had been you.”
Casca clenched his fists. “You mean the assassins? That was you?”
Bartholomew looked smug. “Neat, don’t you think? The perfect Brotherhood organization. Nobody can touch us, and we can knock off anyone we choose.”
“That means the old man Hassan al-Sabah is…”
“The Elder, yes. He has suffered a loss of prestige since it has become known he let you through his fingers, and he may yet be ousted as Elder. But for the moment he remains, and once he gets to hear that you are here, I would suspect you’ll get a large number of our agents coming along to make sure you don’t escape this time.”
Casca grabbed the priest by the throat, pinning him again against the wall. “You try it, bead counter, and I’ll smear you all over this wall!”
Bartholomew began to turn red and struggled futilely. He made inarticulate noises, trying to speak. Finally Casca relented and released him, stepping back. The priest massaged his throat, gasping for air. He looked up, his hair even more unkempt. “It is too late. Kill me, Longinus, and you only lose the one man you know is a member of our blessed organization. What of the others? You’ll never find them!”
“I will; sooner or later you sick perverts betray yourselves.”
“By then we’ll have you surrounded with agents. Enough of this. There are other, bigger issues at stake here.”
“Such as what?”
“Don’t you see what’s going on around you? Armies of religion marching to the Holy City. Surely even someone like you can see that the co-incidence is not something to overlook!”
“What co-incidence, Bartholomew? This is an anti-Muslim movement, nothing more than that!”
Peter Bartholomew shook his head. “Oh no. Armageddon could be coming. Jerusalem is the city Jesus died in, and surely He will return there.
Can’t you feel it? Can you feel a pull?”
“The only thing I can feel is a growing desire to crush your fucking neck,” Casca growled, flexing his fingers. “You talk such utter crap. Armageddon! This is a Christian Crusade, nothing more. You can make it into anything you like, but I prefer to see it as just another war.”
“Oh yes, war. Your lifetime occupation, isn’t it?”
“More honorable than yours, shithead.”
Bartholomew looked at the soldier in distaste. “You really are an uneducated barbarian, aren’t you? Some of us think you are intelligent, but speaking to you here I can see they are misguided. We are going to come along with you on this march. For all we know the Second Coming will be awaiting us at Jerusalem, and for that none of us would miss it for anything.”
“You’re crazy,” Casca replied. “Everything you do or say is crazy. I want nothing to do with you. The only thing awaiting you at Jerusalem is death. The last time you lot were there you came unstuck, didn’t you?”
Bartholomew pulled a moué of distaste. “That was during a difficult period. Things are different now. We are stronger and Islam is weaker. They’ve been corrupted by city life. We’ve even got our hooks into their religion, as you know. Then, well they were new and unknown to us.”
Casca slid his sword out. He jabbed the priest in the throat. “Let me make myself clear to you, once and for all. I do not want to see you near me or my tent. I do not want to see any of you freaks, is that clear? If you wish to go to Jerusalem and see that nothing of the things you hope for come about, then be my guest. I don’t, however, want to have to get involved in anything you or your insane colleagues think up. If you do, I’ll use this. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.” He stepped away and made his way to the alleyway entrance. “Now stop creeping around me and my companions, or I’m going to get violent.”
He left the priest alone in the alleyway and returned to the house. He sat in the dining room, listening to Mehmet fussing around in the kitchen. Giselle was still upstairs probably, luxuriating in her bed. Casca had been unsettled by the appearance of the Brotherhood. They always presaged trouble, and trouble was something he could do without; war brought enough trials as it was.
